Cobra De Capello

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Nathaniel's SUV traveled north on Tiburon Boulevard and stopped at a park. Aleksey exited the vehicle, which then headed in a U-shaped direction—northward, westward, and southward— toward Nathaniel's hideaway on a hill high above Sausalito's commercial strip of bayside shops, restaurants, and ferry terminals.

Aleksey descended a steep slope to reach the park's primary footpath that wiggled along the coastline. A few miles across Richardson Bay he could see one of the colossal red towers of the Golden Gate Bridge peeking over the Marin Headlands. He put his hands in his pockets and slowed his stroll to a leisurely pace.

Aleksey was relieved, not disappointed, that he was barred from knowing the exact location of Nathaniel's hideaway. According to Zachary, Nathaniel kept it a secret from everyone but his primary assistants and some close friends and family members. The former champion blasted like a rocket to the highest level in the professional fighting world with a plethora of enemies in his wake, due largely to his prickly trash talking, heinous threats and crimes against his opponents in and out of the cage, and incessant grudges. Along with the money, fame, endorsements, and glory, Nathaniel had acquired a furtive lifestyle and fear of constant retaliation by countless combatants. Zachary had once told Aleksey that there may be no bounds to what Nathaniel is capable of to ensure his hard-fought privacy and safety.

Zachary occupied a similar world and took precautions for himself. But Aleksey knew Zachary, his boss, was far less controversial than Nathaniel. He suspected that Zachary's greatest source of animosity from opponents and others was due to his longtime friendship with Nathaniel. Whereas Nathaniel could not travel without a full security team, Zachary usually roved only with Aleksey, his foremost bodyguard.

Aleksey wandered past a soccer game, a birthday party, and a group of people throwing flying discs for the joy of their leaping, athletic canines. Behind a knoll and adjacent to a playground, he discovered a small art fair. Paintings were displayed on makeshift walls and cloth-covered tables under pop-up tents. Children ran about with their faces painted to evoke animals and superheroes. Several booth stations prominently featured award ribbons they had presumably won earlier in the day from judged contests.

An artist with a long beard, tie dye tunic, and moccasins offered affordable portraits created on the spot. Aleksey, impressed with the realism of his sample works, handed the man twenty-five dollars and took a seat across from him. The artist requested that he smile, but Aleksey refused and opted for an expression conveying a ruffian. The artist studied Aleksey's face and clothes as he sketched with color pencils and completed the portrait in less than a quarter of an hour. Finished, Aleksey stood behind the artist to review the drawing.

"Here you are," the artist announced. "Where will you display it?"

"I don't know that I will," Aleksey answered, aghast at the vicious portrayal in front of him.

The artist rolled up the sketch and Aleksey hesitated to accept it. He considered just leaving empty-handed or asking the man why he made such a cruel impression of his likeness. Aleksey grasped the paper with only two fingers, as if the mere act of touching it was offensive, and traipsed away with a sneer.

Finding a secluded site under a tree atop the knoll, Aleksey unraveled the drawing and placed rocks on the corners to keep it displayed. He moved back a few feet and squinted his eyes, yet still found it galling. His dark blond hair, slicked back over his head, looked contrived and silly. His pleasant facial features appeared too soft and boyish to belong to a security guard twenty-five years of age. His bomber jacket, portrayed accurately, seemed ill-suited to his character.

The portrait is of a man more like a clown than a brute. Aleksey shook his head in revulsion. A bodyguard cannot look so sensitive and fragile, he thought.

However, there was something that kept him from tearing the paper to shreds. Aleksey had doubts that the artist deliberately intended mischief. Aleksey photographed the sketch with his phone and sent it to Rafael Pena, his boyfriend. Seconds later, his phone rang.

"It's awesome, babe," Rafael said. "Will you give it to me when you are back from your trip?"

"You are kidding, right?" Aleksey asked.

"No. What's wrong?"

"I don't look anything like this sketch. I hate it."

"I disagree. Who painted you?"

"Some hippie-like dude here at a half-ass art fair. It is only a drawing. But I thought he was being a jerk."

"Be nice. He did a good job. I hope you give the drawing to me, Aleksey."

"So, you are telling me that this is what I look like to you?" Aleksey inquired. "A teenage pop star?"

"Call me tonight, babe," Rafael said and laughed, disconnecting the call.

Aleksey sat on the knoll and stared at the errant ripples on the water in the bay. The breezes and winds pushed the liquid around at will, but only on the surface. The depths remained unaffected. Aleksey thumbed through his saved photographs, certain he could be reassured that the sketch held no truth. But he now saw himself through the eyes of the artist and he was appalled. His hairstyle, in particular, earned most of his scorn.

Aleksey ripped the portrait in half, discarded it in the park's nearest trash can, walked south on Tiburon Boulevard, and located a unisex hair salon in the commercial district near the southern end of the peninsula.

"What are we doing today?" the stylist asked, combing her lithe fingers through his fine hair.

"Starting fresh," Aleksey answered, shrugging his shoulders and taking a deep breath.

"All right. What does that mean? A new style?"

"Please cut it off."

"All of it?"

"Every single strand."

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